The freehold town of Bastian had humongous walls—but it had never needed them.

  That was the cruel part. The irony. The tragedy whispered by ash and bone long after the screaming had stopped.

  The valley air clung thick that day. Summer had overstayed its welcome, baking the stone paths and making the wood of the shutters sweat resin. It smelled of honeysuckle, charred iron from the forge, and the lingering sweetness of drying herbs on windowsills. A dog barked at nothing. Somewhere, a ladle scraped the bottom of a stewpot. The sky hung clear and blue and quiet, like it hadn’t yet decided to doom anyone.

  Bastian, nestled between forest ridges, still thrummed with life. With rhythm. With ordinary breath. No one looked to the hills. No one listened for drums.

  Not yet.

  Norn ran barefoot through dust so hot it singed his toes. A wooden sword, chipped and wrapped in old leather, slapped against his thigh as he sprinted. Ten years old. Grinning with the wild joy of pretend war. He carried the weight of nothing. Not yet.

  Other boys shouted from the town square, building "barricades" from crates and overturned stools, tying ropes between fence posts to trip imaginary invaders.

  His father worked near the well, hammering a red-hot iron rod into shape. Every strike rang like church bells across the square. His shoulders flexed under a sun-bleached tunic, arms lined with old scars—none fresh. He didn’t speak much. He never needed to. His silences weighed more than most men’s voices.

  Norn slowed as he passed, offering a breathless wave. His father met his eyes—just a flicker—and gave the barest nod.

  “He sees me. That’s enough.”

  His mother stood in the doorway of their home. Apron dusted with flour, a sprig of feverfew tucked behind one ear. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, one hand balancing a bowl of soaking roots, the other threading a thin string of garlic. She waved.

  Norn raised his toy sword like a banner, cheeks flushed from heat and pride.

  “I’ll be back in time for stew!” he called.

  “Don’t break your neck pretending to be a soldier,” she replied with a smile. “You’d make a terrible one.”

  He laughed. The others called him over, and he sprinted toward them, vanishing behind the church steps.

  The smell of baked bread drifted lazily from the bakery. Chickens pecked at fallen grains. The tanner cursed at a torn hide. Bells rang from a cart stacked with apples. Life spun forward without hesitation.

  Norn would remember every sound.

  Every small, stupid detail.

  Even when he didn’t want to.

  That evening, the fire crackled low in the yard as his father handed him a practice stick. They moved in slow circles on the hard-packed earth, barefoot, shifting weight from heel to toe. The cicadas hummed nearby. The forge coals were dying behind them.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Norn struck wide. His father parried with one hand. Again, and again—until Norn’s arms shook.

  “I want to join the guards,” Norn panted, sweat beading down his brow. “I’ll protect the town. Protect you. Mama.”

  His father’s expression didn’t change. He brought his stick up to block, then slowly lowered it.

  “A true protector avoids battles.”

  The words hung in the dusk like smoke.

  “But never hesitates when one is forced upon him.”

  Norn blinked, breath catching in his throat. “What does that mean?”

  His father turned away, looking toward the ridge.

  “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

  But he never got the chance.

  The wind changed the next evening.

  The warm valley breeze sharpened. Became brittle. Then sour.

  Smoke. Not woodsmoke. Not chimney smoke. This was bitter. This was death.

  Then—drums.

  Far. Measured. Wrong.

  Not music.

  Marching.

  The bell tower rang once. Then again. Then silence.

  A pause. The sound of something cracking.

  Screams.

  Norn was in the kitchen when the shouting started. His mother dropped a pot, clay shattering across stone. His father cursed under his breath—something Norn had never heard before.

  Then the pounding at the gate. The snap of wood. The shriek of iron.

  “Norn, here—hide!” his mother hissed. She shoved aside a tall shelf and pointed toward the narrow gap behind it.

  He didn’t move. He just stared at her eyes—wide, terrified.

  His father bolted the front door and turned toward the table, lifting a hammer not meant for war.

  “Now, Norn!”

  The boy scrambled behind the shelf, wedging into the dust and dark. Through the slats, he saw his mother grab a kitchen knife. Her hands trembled.

  Then the door shattered inward.

  The Black Sigil Reavers didn’t march in lines. They didn’t shout orders or form ranks. They swarmed.

  They wore black leathers smeared with red spirals. Faces hidden. Teeth bared. They laughed as they burned things.

  A Reaver stepped through the door, crossbow already raised. The spiral on his armor dripped something wet.

  “Thought you were safe here?” he said. The words were casual. Like greeting an old friend. Like tasting a piece of fruit.

  Norn’s father moved first.

  Hammer in hand, he lunged—not with fury, but with desperation.

  The bolt fired with a sharp twang.

  It hit just below the collarbone.

  The old man dropped without a sound.

  “Papa...” Norn mouthed. His throat wouldn’t work.

  His mother screamed. Charged. The Reaver didn’t flinch. His dagger slid between her ribs. She gasped once, then folded beside the man she loved.

  Her hand, slick with blood, reached toward the cabinet.

  “Norn…”

  He burst out, tripping over the shelf. “Mama!”

  He held her face. She smiled once. Then stilled.

  The boy didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. His knees were soaked red. His lungs refused to breathe. His body was a shell, hollow and cold.

  The Reaver stepped forward, crossbow still drawn.

  He pointed it at the boy’s head.

  “You’re next.”

  Norn looked up.

  His eyes weren’t full of fear.

  They weren’t full of anything.

  Just silence. A stare that didn’t belong in a child’s face.

  And something in it made the Reaver hesitate.

  The moment cracked.

  Norn’s fingers crept toward the knife on the ground.

  The man’s grip shifted. The crossbow creaked.

  “No.”

  Norn moved.

  The blade flashed upward, fast and wild.

  He screamed—

  And then silence.

  Real silence. The kind that only lives after ruin.

  The fire had caught the edge of the town. Orange light spilled in from the windows. Somewhere distant, the bell tower collapsed with a low groan. Someone was still screaming. Someone always screamed.

  Norn knelt beside the bodies, the knife still slick in his hand.

  Outside, the world burned.

  And something inside him had already turned to ash.